


masquerade as a required condition for success

by iniquiticity



Series: a heart made of wood [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ironflint, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breathplay, Choking, Darkfic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Nefarious Relationship Dynamics, Power Dynamics, bad people doing bad things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 03:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11349195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: The worst part about the way Deborah Sampson looked at him was that it was him that she disliked, not the plan. His deranged but exquisitely useful assistant has just the right solution.





	masquerade as a required condition for success

**Author's Note:**

> this bit takes place somewhere about 70% of the way through "striking iron with flint", and some time after "in my past life, i was an interior decorator." please check the series tags before reading! this story is not for you if manipulative power dynamics aren't something you do. 
> 
> while this story *can* be read independently of at least the other two, they'll provide some additional context. if you're not interested in doing that, just know these are particularly unflattering modern characterizations.

The worst part about the way Deborah Sampson looked at him wasn't that she obviously wasn't interested in his business plan, it’s that it’s obvious that the plan wasn't half as noxious to her as he was. She nodded along with him and asked generic questions, but at the end of the meeting she said, _‘That’s wonderful, Mr. Washington. I’ll be happy to reconvene when I think these strategies will be more suitable to our needs.’_

She gave him a fine handshake, and when she left he stared daggers into the back of her blazer, thinking of time wasted and energy that will need to be reconverted. Steps would need to be reorganized and plans would need to be changed.

Hamilton cleared his throat after he closed the door. He looked through the glass windows of the conference room, and then he sat next to Washington, away from the windows and facing the wall to hide his expression. He shot Washington a skeptical look and took out his phone, idly scrolling through his email. “That was shit,” Hamilton said, “She thinks you’re the most squarest square to ever square.” 

“Eloquent, as always,” he responded, but Hamilton was right, in his way. It’s worse because Washington knew a lot of his regular tools weren't available; he couldn't persuade Sampson in all the ways he’d usually able to. 

“I mean, you are a fucking square,” Hamilton said, and then he stood up again, studied the end slide of their presentation, and went over to the computer to unplug it, “But most people aren’t so offended by it. Some people even like your squareishness.” 

“Enough,” he said, and waved a dismissive hand in Hamilton’s direction, “I’ll address it later. We’ll go through the presentation and see where it can be improved. We have other things to do today.” 

“Yeah, we’re meeting with Randolph in forty minutes. So don’t get too mad, you have to save some of your anger at being mad at that douche.” 

“You could have arranged them on different days.” 

“I didn’t know Sampson was going to hate you so much, I thought it was a gonna be a win, and then we had some good mojo for Randolph.”

He acknowledged with a noise.

Hamilton tucked the laptop under his arm. He checked his phone with the other hand, then put it back in his pocket and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, naturally Randolph is making us walk across the campus, but the new milkshake place is over there, so I win in the end. You’ve never had a milkshake in your life, by the way. Why do we have a milkshake place on campus? Anyway, do you want to go there now or then?” 

“People Operations did a study and they found what most people who worked on campus wanted most was a place that felt relaxed, served casual food, and was low cost. Out of the chains that proposed to us, milkshakes as an option had good suggestions for every dietary restriction, no chance for burns or grease-fires, very low overhead costs, and easy employee onboarding. And you should go now, and I’ll be along shortly.” 

Hamilton frowned. “Why wasn’t I involved in the milkshake place conference?” 

“Because you were in Chicago, doing reviews of the scouted hotels for the shareholder conference in September.” 

“Right. Well,” he pointed a finger at Washington, “Next time, I am in the milkshake discussion, shareholders or no shareholders.” 

“Noted.” 

Hamilton gave him a final look, and then left the conference room. 

 

*** 

 

His assistant appeared in his office the next day at about ten-thirty in the morning. Washington was reading a report Sullivan had written him about logistics with southern partners, and he didn’t bother to look up. 

“Oh my god, the most amazing thing happened to me,” Hamilton began, “I saw Deborah Sampson. At the fucking club.” 

As usual, Hamilton did not need his indication to continue. 

“So I’m just chilling out right. Getting a drink, whatever. Sometimes they let me into VIP because I say if you go anywhere you’ll come here, but not today, because all the spots are taken. But I look over and - it’s fucking her. And she has like, a whole pile of sluts. Every kind of slut you could imagine. Man sluts, lady sluts, sluts of indeterminate gender. Sluts in blazers, sluts in swimsuits, sluts in dresses, you name the slut, they were there.” 

Washington finally folded the report closed, and looked up at Hamilton. His eyes were brilliant despite the deep bags under them. He was pacing through the length of the office, pulling on his hair and nodding to himself. 

“Enough with the entourage.” 

“Well, just so you know, it was like a fucking rapper or something. So anyway, I’m like, holy shit, didn’t see that coming.” At this Hamilton stopped and walked over to his desk, and sat in a nearby chair for about two seconds before jumping out of it. Washington wondered if he’d slept. “But then I’m like - no wonder she thinks you’re a square, because you hate clubs and sluts. Besides me, I guess. Anyway, what if we could convince her that you were just like, a chill club guy, and I was like, your slut. Which I am. But you know, her type of slut, not your type of slut.” 

“I’m not going to the club and making a fool of myself when I can recoup most of the lost business without mangling my dignity,” Washington said, folding his hand over the dark expanse of his desk and watching his manic assistant pace across the hardwood floor of his office. 

“You know,” Hamilton said, going to the mini-fridge in the cabinet and taking out one of the cold-brew coffees, opening it and taking a gulp, “I don’t think you’d have to give up a lot of dignity. I mean, you don’t have to take molly and dance or something. It would at least have to be vaguely convincing. But you definitely can do cool and distant, and lots of people like their daddies cool and distant.” 

“I am not being anyone’s daddy.” 

“You don’t have to be anyone’s daddy. I mean that might help, but I don’t think it’s required.” He took another gulp of the coffee from the little glass bottle, then took both himself and the bottle to Washington’s desk, moved some stuff away from it, and sat on the desk, thinking. “I think this can work. I am not just doing this to make you come to the club with me, I promise. If I was, I would tell you you had to do molly.” The characteristic Hamilton smirk twisted on his mouth. “You would be hysterical on molly. But no, I think this is a real plan. Do you want to hear the plan?” 

“If I say no, are you going to tell me the plan anyway?” 

“No, if you say no, I’m going to walk right out of this office and into my office and get started on yelling passive-aggressively at Randolph until he gets his act together and gets us what we want. But I will remind you for the foreseeable future that I had a plan to get the Sampson contract and you shot it down.” 

Washington sighed. He looked up at the man sitting on his desk. “Let’s hear the plan.”. 

“Well,” Hamilton said, and jumped off his desk, landing low in a crouch despite the very small fall distance. He stood back up and ran his fingers through his hair, then gathered himself, “What I’m thinking is we find you some less square clothes - not too unsquare, just you know, rectangle - and then we’ll go, and you’ll get a VIP seat, because you’re George Washington, but we will try to make it so no one else, like, knows, I know you’re sensitive -- I know all the bouncers, they’re good for it - and you’ll go into the VIP section and you’ll sit down and you’ll see her and go--” He deepened his voice, for a terrible impression of Washington’s baritone, “‘Oh, what a pleasant surprise, Mrs. Sampson. Hello.’ And she’ll go ‘oh, hey Mr. Washington, I thought you were a giant fucking square, maybe not.’ and then I’ll show up with some expensive bottle of liquor that just happened to be her favorite - I know because I stole her copy of the receipt from the bar - and is now your favorite, and she’ll go ‘Wow, you also like Johnnie Walker Blue? Me too!’ and you’ll go ‘Johnnie Walker Blue is my favorite’ And she’ll go ‘So you’re fucking your hot assistant?’ and you’ll go ‘Well, he serves my needs,’ and she’ll go ‘Wow, maybe you aren’t such a fucking square, I’d be happy to give you millions of dollars for your company to attend to my needs and I’ll also fuck your assistant for you.’ And then we all live happily ever after.” 

Washington had become better at piercing through these kinds of winding rants. Honestly, they had become clearer and more concise, though that didn’t mean much. He pulled out the relevant details and studied each one of them, tuning out Hamilton’s vague mumbling and the sound of his footsteps. He didn’t know what it meant, regarding Hamilton’s clothing comments. But they’d pretended to care about each other in different ways before, and given the size of the contract, it wasn’t a bad idea to pursue some alternative option. Although at the end there had been… 

“Is this just a front to use me to get yourself Ms. Sampson?” he asked, after a moment.

“What?” Hamilton asked, and frowned at him. He paused for a second, obviously only now going over what he had just said, “Oh. No. I mean, that would be a perk, but the point of this is not to get laid, the point of this is to get business, and then after getting the business, then get laid.” 

“That’s not usually the order of your priorities,” Washington said. Hamilton laughed at that, and then he circled back to the desk, drinking more of his cold coffee and looking past Washington out his windows, and back to him. 

“Well,” he said, instead of answering the question, “Do you want to see if we can find you some less square clothes, and then you can pretend like I am your side piece, and you can drink Johnnie Walker Blue? It will be better than that god-awful mulled wine Jefferson made us drink at his shit party last year. I can’t believe you made me go to that. I’m not over it.” 

He considered. On one hand, going to a club seemed a positively repulsive idea. Nothing about the club seemed even remotely tolerable - he could imagine it hot, crowded, with bad music, and everything much too loud. Morons unable to control themselves, fueled by liquor and party drugs. Flashing strobes and awful electronica. 

But on the other hand, there was a note of merit to the idea, and if all it took to get Deborah Sampson’s business was showing up in a polo shirt and listening to terrible music for an hour or two, that was well worth it. He could have gone without overpriced whiskey, but like Hamilton had said, anything was preferable to the terrible mulled wine Jefferson had served at one of his networking events. He could always reject the idea in some later stage, after all. 

“Sure,” he said, “What are your ideas for a more appropriate style?” 

Hamilton brightened. He took out his phone and jabbed at it for a few moments. “Where you think you have the most clothes? You’ve got a 3:30 with Knox, that’s probably 90 minutes, maybe two hours. Nothing planned after that, though. I mean, there was a 6PM with Marketing, but one of them has the flu, so they already want to reschedule, so we’ll take that off. And there’s an optional mixer on your calendar about growth opportunities in South America, beer and d'oeuvres. You could go to that if you wanted, but it doesn’t really sound like it would be ready for you just yet. Mostly networking, I bet. And by that I mean you go and people talk to you about shit they should be talking to me about.” 

A beat of consideration. “Reschedule the marketing meeting and find out more about the South America seminar. I have to read this report from Sullivan about southern logistics, and I emailed you a copy and I would like you to read it as well. I probably have the most clothes in the Flatiron condo, go there and investigate what you think would be best. And if I don’t like it, we’re not doing this.” 

Hamilton laughed. He threw the empty glass bottle into the recycling bin, pulled a hair tie out of his pocket, and pulled his hair away from his face, tying it back in his familiar ponytail. Washington thought it was too long - he made a note to put that on Hamilton’s to-do list, though it after this event occurred. He didn’t need the man getting distracted. “Marketing meeting, South America, read Sullivan’s report - which I’m sure is pretty good by the way, he’s a smart dude - look at your clothes in the Flatiron. And don’t upset your delicate sensibilities. Got it. Oh. One more thing.” 

“Yes?” 

“In what subtle, passive-aggressive ways can I beat up on Randolph for being such a tool?” 

That was an interesting question. Hamilton was vindictive. The chip on his shoulder was so large Washington suspected that he rejoiced in any little ways he could deliver that weight to someone else, though he kept that hypothesis to himself. But he would admit, secretly, that while there were always reasons to avoid the petty little revenges he wished on other people, it was nice to have Hamilton, who displayed no such restraint. Restraint was alien to his assistant; if someone punished him, he had been so long unequipped to respond that the thought of not responding, now that he was prepared to do so, was completely alien. 

In some twisted way, it was heartwarming. Give the oppressed the tools to battle their enemies and watch them fight back. When other factors didn’t override his own desires, there were ways he liked to take those actions too. Certainly he’d known enough businessmen who loathed his success based only on the color of his skin. And he took extraordinary delight in poaching their employees, flooding their markets, taking their companies for a shard of what they were worth, and liquidating their assets as fast and as completely as he was able. 

Randolph didn’t like him either, after all. 

“I’ll think about it,” he answered, and picked up the report again. Hamilton laughed, and smiled at him again, because Hamilton knew him well enough to understand his answer did not mean _I need to imagine boundaries for you_ , but rather it meant _I will find the boundaries for you, so you can push right up to them_. 

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton said, and closed the door behind him. 

*** 

_Washington, G (6:48 PM)_  
Are you at the flatiron condo? 

_Hamilton, A (7:12 PM)_  
how can one man have so many blue ties

 _Hamilton, A (7:12 PM)_  
you only have one neck and there are just NOT THAT MANY DAYS

 _Hamilton, A (7:12 PM)_  
and they’re all blue cant you just have one tie that has like … hot dogs on it

 _Hamilton, A (7:12 PM)_  
you in a hot dog tie would be amazing holy shit

 _Hamilton, A (7:12 PM)_  
i picked out some outfits for you that are less square and also wont offend your delicate sensibilities 

_Hamilton, A (7:12 PM)_  
good plans for randolph btw what a fucking sucker i am stoked you are the best would employee again 

_Hamilton, A (7:13 PM)_  
by the way bouncer says sampson is going to the club tonight so we are go for operation less square

 _Hamilton, A (7:13 PM)_  
get me a milkshake if youre still at the office

His phone continue to vibrate in his pocket as he exited the taxi and walked to the skyscraper where this apartment was located. He liked the Flatiron district, even if he made it a point not to have apartments that he favored over others for no reason. There were levels to his various ownerships - ones that existed exclusively as tax shelters, ones where he lived, and ones that were useful when someone needed a place to stay. This one fell exclusively into the second category. It has been one of his first real estate purchases, when he had moved into a class where real estate became something you could be involved in.

He heard the ruffling from the walk-in closet when he closed the door to the apartment. A brief inspection in the other rooms to see if Hamilton had caused any unnecessary trouble; it seemed he had avoided such, at least for the time being. He took off his blazer and loosened his tie, leaving his shoes on the shoe rack near the door. Then he walked down the narrow hallway and stepped into the closet. 

An irritated hiss escaped him. Hamilton had quite thoroughly worked on moving all his clothes to where they had hung, well-ordered and pressed, to a lumpy pile on the floor. The man himself was currently looking at two pairs of black jeans, studying the studying the rivets on the back, and holding one of his belts up next to them. 

“Pick this up,” Washington said. 

Hamilton turned from his comparison, looked at the pile at the floor, and then at him. “Forget about it, I’ll do it later. Tell me what you think.” He gestured to a couple of full outfits that were hanging on a rack next to him. “I think you’re more of a dark jeans rather than a chinos kinda guy, right? And your watch is a big deal, wear the best one you have. I always wear my Piaget when I go to the club, that shit gets you right in, you know? And you do actually have some pretty good shirts here. The shoes is kind of an issue. All of your shoes make you look like a horrible businessperson, you need something more boat-shoey.” He gestured with his head to the shoe rack, where all the shoes has been removed, and set in another unmatched pile on the floor. 

“Put my clothes back on my hangers, and then I’ll look at your outfits,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. 

Hamilton huffed and rolled his eyes. So they were going to do this now. He had come to know the way Hamilton telegraphed his actions, before he grossly overstepped any reasonable bounds of propriety. As he expected, Hamilton looked at the pile again, then at him, then stuck his hands in his pants pockets and smirked at him. 

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” he asked. 

He thought, idly, when he saw what he was expected to say and what he was expected to do, he could have gone in another direction. There were alternatives, of course, to the uniqueness of their relationship. He thought it was more than likely, that he could manage to put them back where they both belonged, before Hamilton had set a peculiar hook in him, barbed in such a way he found it more frustrating to remove than to work with. 

“Maybe you’ll find out, if you do it,” he answered, meeting Hamilton’s eyes without blinking. 

“How would I find out what you’d do to me if I don’t do it, if I do do it?” Hamilton asked, but he had sat himself down next to the pile of shoes, and was already matching them together and setting them back in the shoe rack. He wondered if Hamilton could guess the specific order he’d had them in. 

“How about you hang my clothes back up,” Washington responded, “And if it passes my inspection, I’ll give you what you want.” 

Hamilton chuckled, putting his cedar shoe inserts back in his shoes. He licked his lips and stared through his eyelashes up at Washington. “How do you know what I want?” 

Washington saw the way his throat shifted when he swallowed, and knew there was a bruise under his shirt there, in the shape of his hand. He knew there were was a bruise along the lower part of his stomach, where he had pressed Hamilton into his desk two days previous. He knew about the fresh scabs on Hamilton’s back where he’d hit the man with his belt last weekend. “I’m a very good judge of character,” he said, voice dark. He took in the closet once more. “I’m going to read the newspaper. Let me know when you’re done.” 

“You should check up on me, occasionally,” Hamilton said, “I could get distracted.” 

“I could do that,” he said, taking the empty hangers from the bar and dumping them on the floor next to the pile of his clothes. “But obviously if you could manage this task speedily and independently, that would be worthy of a performance bonus. Maybe I’d even let you lick my horrible businessperson shoes.” 

Hamilton veritably purred. Washington watched his eyes slide shut. 

“Well, you know I always have to be the best,” Hamilton said.

“So be the best,” Washington said, and closed the closet door behind him. 

 

*** 

 

The newspaper was easy to concentrate on. He liked the routine of it, the feel of the paper in his hands, the broad overviews of stories and the world. There had never been a time when the easy ritual of the newspaper, especially in the morning, had not appealed to him. He poured himself a finger of bourbon and let his mind drift away from the rustle he heard in the closet. If he strained, he could hear Hamilton talking to himself. 

Unnecessary. Perfectly easy and uncomplicated to skip through the paper, read the sections about some new high-rise going up or the continued expansion of the gap between the rich and poor. Here was an article discussing the inability of young people to get ahead because of student debt. And here was some discussion about tense international relations. Op-eds about the requirements to move to renewable energy and increased social safety nets. Local pieces about cats in trees, new restaurants, reviews of sequels of movies. 

It was a strange, distant delight to read the newspaper. Sure much of the news was terrible, but it was different from reports from within his company, and updates on his competitors, and thoughts on his business. It was uncomplicated in the way things unrelated to work were. There were few things in Washington’s life unrelated to work, and he relished each one of them: the newspaper; the morning workout or run; going out to dinner with someone other than a work contact; art. Maybe, he thought, he could move the Pollack to this apartment. It was presently in his other favorite condo. Or perhaps he could find another one for sale. He made a note to put Hamilton on it, again. 

A little while later he heard the closet door shut, and then Hamilton appeared. The man had a garment bag over his shoulder. 

“All ready for your inspection, boss,” Hamilton said, “Both the closet and my outfit suggestions.” 

“I’ll review the closet, and then we’ll look at your suggestions, and then we’ll see what else is involved in the very near future.” 

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Hamilton said, and opened the garment bag and displayed each group. The outfits were uncomplicated - dark shirts and dark pants, a belt, shoes. There were color and fabric differences, though, and each added a different air, subtle as it was, to the outfits. “So, definitely a good watch, I’m pretty sure I know which one it should be. And I think black shoes is the way to go, by the way. Some people think brown, but you do black better.” A wink. 

“What made you choose these particular options?” he asked, folding away the newspaper, standing up and looking at the clothes, “What benefits and downsides are there to them?”

These were familiar questions between them. Hamilton intertwined his fingers and stretched his arms out, his knuckles cracking. 

“It’s really just a matter of style. What do we think Sampson will like the most? Is she most interested in someone who’s just a little chiller than you really are?” He gestured to the first outfit. “Or are we thinking your usual cold and distant self, just dressed down a little bit?” Here, the second outfit. “Or are we thinking we should make you like … a guy who goes to the club who find a younger man to fuck? I don’t know if you know the difference between those three, but I promise there is one, and Sampson’ll know it.” There was a pause here. “Like, if what she loathes about you is the ruthless businessman, then we could make you more chill. But if you think that it’s your I’m-rich-and-I’m-subtle-but-you-know vibe, the second option is the best. But maybe it’s like a whole situation, and we need to reframe that characteristic George Washington ice into more like a ‘You don’t deserve me but I will graciously fuck you if you ask very nicely’ thing, and not a ‘You got your MBA from an online class and I know it’ kind of thing.” 

No matter the topic, or the ineloquent phrasing he tended to, Hamilton’s mind was to be admired. It reminded Washington that this was worth it. There was effort in tending to this particular asset, but the value that was reaped was enormous. Watching the man put together the outfits, and what they represented, was just another way to see the value that shown through all the downsides. 

“Which option you would you select?” he asked. 

Hamilton moved toward the third option, picking up the shirt and holding it in front of Washington. Under normal circumstances, Washington wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a thing without a tie and a blazer. This wasn’t normal circumstances, he supposed. 

“The third one is the best,” Hamilton said, putting the shirt down, and picking up a pair of blue jeans so dark they were nearly black. Washington had forgotten he’d owned any jeans. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore them. “Because you only get one shot at this, right? So you just go to the best extreme to match what you thinks she wants, and if she wants you to be like a club king, you can do that. Like, looking down your nose at people is one of your top abilities. So we might as just go all out. It’s not like you can send a follow up email and be like ‘Sorry I was too square, can we reconnect next week and I’ll wear my Hawaiian shirt?’ Worse comes to worse, we make you too unsquare, and then we have to deal with the ramifications of that later while you swim in your newly constructed pool of money. Could you handle it if you didn’t wear a tie to work?” 

It was certainly different from the businessman’s style that he preferred, but what Hamilton thought to be an extreme hardly seemed that strange at all. He had been expecting some mesh or leather or something; he’d been in Hamilton’s closet and saw what the man routinely wore to the club. Between the two of them, Hamilton was clearly more experienced in this matter. An important part of leadership, after all, was acknowledging when you weren’t the most knowledgeable on some specific topic or event, and letting a person who knew more about it take the lead. 

“All right, let’s go with that one.” 

Hamilton clapped his hands together and pumped his fist. He put the clothes back down on the table, and then he leaned up against it and crossed his arms across his chest. He cast Washington a dark look, and then turned his head to look down the hallway. “Do you want to see your closet?”

“I do want to see my closet,” Washington answered, “Wait here.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton said, and sat himself on the table, kicking his feet as he reached into his pocket to play with his phone. 

The closet was immaculate, as he had expected it to be. Shirts were arranged according the color and style. Pants clipped into their hangers. Shoes set with cedar inserts. Ties arranged neatly on his tie rack, by fabric and pattern. There was a sort of joy to it, to being in a nice-arranged closet. Perhaps it was strange to rejoice in the calm of knowing that all things were in their proper place, but he still felt it. As a test, he opened a drawer, and found folded pocket squares. He closed his eyes and took a breath, and then when he felt gathered he turned on his heel and walked out of the closet, Hamilton already recentered in his thoughts. 

How would he reward the man? He’d come to enjoy the question more, once he became accustomed to the way it sounded and felt. There was no need to address the crossed line once it had already been so thoroughly decimated; he thought idly about business mergers and five years later trying to identify where the line had been. It was hardly as worse as he’d thought it could be, and it had saved him Richards’ insufferable company. Hamilton was better than some whore, and they both knew it. These days they had settled into a rhythm. 

Hamilton thought he pushed, but Washington went with it. It was easier than fighting back, and while he might have denied it previously, he well knew, now and then, that going along with Hamilton’s inability to maintain his sexual urges was relatively enjoyable. Sure it was nothing like that they were going to do to Edmund Randolph together, or the sweet sense of watching another person realize how utterly cornered they were, but it was certainly up there. 

He guessed Hamilton would be naked. He delayed, because Hamilton liked to display himself in these kinds of situation, and Washington enjoyed meaningful art. He had just given the man a good beating recently, and he liked Hamilton to recover from them before he gave him another, even if Hamilton asked for one. Most of their playthings were in his other apartment, with his Pollack painting. 

He closed the closet door behind him just to make sure Hamilton knew. He unknotted his tie and let it hang around his neck. He unbuttoned his shirt two more buttons down and folded up his sleeves. 

Hamilton was naked, as he could have guessed. Hamilton was laying on the table, scrolling through his phone, his other hand idly playing with himself. Hamilton looked over at him and smiled, and spun himself to a sitting position, again letting his feet dangle above the hardwood floor. He put his phone on the neatly-folded pile of his clothes. 

Washington knew that Hamilton wanted to impress him, if he folded his own clothes. 

“Your closet looked pretty nice, right?” Hamilton asked, putting his hands in his lap, “And I folded the other outfits and put them on that chair. I put the one we selected on the couch, so we know what you’re going to wear. I already picked out my outfit, too. It’s also on the couch. You can look at it you want. But it’s pretty reasonable. It’s just really tight jeans and a polo shirt.” 

He glanced over to the council where he saw the two outfits. The clothes wouldn’t go anywhere, if he wanted to investigate later. Right now, he had other priorities. He sat in his chair at the end of the table and gestured. Hamilton came without more effort, letting his legs hang off the edge of the table on either side of Washington’s lap. He tucked some hair behind his ear and then rested both of his hands behind him. 

“My closet did look pretty nice,” Washington agreed, and then reached forward and put his hands on Hamilton’s knees. He let his hands slide up those pale thighs, felt the hairs tickle his palms. Hamilton sighed, his head falling back. It was unfamiliar, to like to touch another man. Washington hated to be touched, but there was something different about the hot touch of Hamilton’s skin under his palms. It was the sense of control, he had decided. Hamilton _gave_. Even when he took, he also gave. Washington took, and it seemed he could go back to the well that was Alexander Hamilton over and over again. 

“What do you think?” Hamilton asked, his voice low. 

“I like your new tattoo,” he said, and reached up to press his hand the ink, where it set in Hamilton’s lower stomach on the right side, half on his ribs and half below. It was black and orange - a bee. A wasp, Hamilton had said. _A tarantula hawk wasp. Supposed to be the most painful sting on the planet. You just scream unintelligibly for six to eight minutes._

“I like it too,” Hamilton answered. He put his hands in front of him and looked down to where he was being touched. He didn’t touch - he knew Washington didn’t like to be touched - but he let his eyes trace Washington's arm and then look up at him, that sharp focus moving to his mouth. Hamilton did like it, to have his mouth. He liked biting Hamilton, feeling the give of his skin. Liked the way the marks looked, when he pulled away. Washington could press his fingers into Hamilton's skin until there were bruises. He liked the look of it. 

There were a few old bruises that he remembered. He stroked them with his knuckles and heard Hamilton hiss. 

“Come here,” he said, and patted his own leg. 

Hamilton didn’t need to be told twice. He now sat in Washington’s lap, he reached out and slid the tie away from Washington’s shoulders, wrapping it around his palms, testing the strength of the fabric. 

“Give it to me,” Washington said, and Hamilton put the tie in his open palm. He wrapped the tie around one wrist, twisted it, and then around the other wrist, ending the makeshift bonds with a knot. Hamilton tested it, and then he let his bound hands fall back to his lap, one wrapping around his half-erect cock. He stared up at Washington and smirked, dared him to tell him to stop. 

He didn’t. Let Hamilton masturbate, if he wanted. It was a minor thing - a base impulse that Hamilton was unable to control. Like most urges, really. Sometimes he did stop Hamilton, to watch him struggle and be frustrated. Sometimes there was something enjoyable, to sate himself. 

Today he wrapped his hands around Hamilton’s throat and applied pressure. Just enough - he understood subtlety, and the requirement to do just enough. There was no need to go overboard, after all. You only needed to allocate exactly the amount of resources that you needed. He didn’t want Hamilton to pass out. He just wanted Hamilton’s gaze to flicker, like it did, and to make eye contact and flinch at him, like he did. He wanted to feel Hamilton swallow under his thumbs, and he did. He wanted to feel the pulse of Hamilton’s heartbeat under his thumbs, and he did. Hamilton even stopped touching him for the moment, distracted. 

It was a pure, undistilled sort of power, to hold Hamilton like this. Of course, he controlled many parts of Hamilton's life otherwise - his job, and if Hamilton upset him, he could have utterly ruined the man. But those were social constructions. Meaningless layers in so many different ways. This was different. He held the man’s life in his hands. It was more intoxicating than any bourbon he’d ever drank. 

He squeezed a little harder. 

Hamilton’s pulse began to race. Red spots appeared in his cheeks, and the redness trickled down his neck and down his chest like a stream. His eyes fluttered shut, and his mouth hung open, and his shoulders slumped. His breath came in little gasps. 

He squeezed harder, and Hamilton trembled, making desperate rasping noises. Hamilton’s hands came up, unconsciously perhaps, and made a lovely, pathetic attempt to bat him away. The end of the tie fluttered. Hamilton shook harder and went limp as his body struggled to conserve energy, and looked desperately for Washington to give it more power, and found nothing. It was like lifting a glass only to see it was empty, and he alone held more water. 

He let go. Hamilton inhaled a rattling gasp and jerked; Washington put up his hand so that Hamilton fell forward against his chest rather than falling off his lap. The man sputtered desperately, dead weight against his shoulder. For a second Washington thought he might vomit as his system was reflooded with oxygen, but the moment passed. There was a peculiar feel to the air. It felt silent even as Hamilton coughed, loud, without a regular rhythm. 

He stroked the man’s hair and down his back as he struggled. He could feel every system desperately rebooting under the other man's skin, and there was a magnificent delight in knowing he was the cause. It was so easy, to startle another human. You only needed to wear the right clothes, or know the right people, or display some particular sign, or wrap your hand around their skinny little throat and squeeze. 

“Shit,” Hamilton said, his voice hoarse. He pressed his bound hands against Washington’s chest and used that to sit himself back up. His eyes were red. “You oughta touch my cock when you do that.” 

“Should I?” 

“Yeah, you really should.” 

He reached out and took Hamilton’s cock in his hand. It had gone soft, but Washington knew exactly the touches required to excite him. 

“Yeah,” Hamilton said, and he groaned, shifting his hips towards the hand that caressed him, “Just like that.” 

He took Hamilton’s throat in his hand again, and squeezed. The process repeated. Hamilton’s face reddened, and his breaths became gasps, and his whole body lolled. He softened in Washington’s other hand, but his spasmic trembling was enough to continue the contact. When he let Hamilton go again, the man helplessly pushed his hips into Washington’s hand even despite his rattling coughs. Everything about the man seemed utterly pitiful. With his hands tied and his gasping for breath, he was helpless. Washington felt the rush that came with knowing he had all the power. It was his favorite thing in the world, and despite his victories there were usually limits that restrained him, and now there were none. He knew with confidence he could have let the light go out of Hamilton’s eyes, if he wanted. Certainly parts of his life would be easier. 

But he could only do such a thing once. He knew that many things seemed better in one’s imagination. He felt confident this was one. 

“Ok,” Hamilton said, having caught his breath again, “Now jack me off for a little while, and when I’m about to come, strangle me.” 

“That would be a good reward?” 

Hamilton sat up straight on his lap and let Washington stroke him. The man clearly thought about his question for a moment. “Well, honestly, I’ll feel the best when Sampson apologizes for thinking you’re a square. And then even better when we put Randolph’s face in a waffle iron. But for now...” He wiggled his hips. Washington squeezed his cock, and he groaned. “This’ll do.” 

So he stroked Hamilton a little firmer and a little faster, and let the man push into his hand, get a good pace with the rolls of his hips. He let Hamilton rest his forehead on Washington’s shoulder, to create a little more balance. He let Hamilton’s bound hands join his, even. It was easy to satisfy the man like this. Such an easy, base request to fulfill. 

“Ok,” Hamilton said, “Now, yeah.” 

He grabbed the man’s throat in his hand and felt the flesh give under his grip. The pounding heartbeat seemed so close and so small in his fist. Hamilton seemed puny, like an ant, with his gasping and twitching. He was helpless and pathetic and incapable, and here Washington held all of his life and his blood and even better, his pleasure and his pain. He merged them together, into one. He twisted one wrist and let go of the other, and Hamilton came with a breathless cry. Only the cage of Washington’s hands stopped the seizing man from hitting the ground in his gasps and coughs and desperate breaths.

“Shit,” Hamilton rasped again, hoarse. 

“Indeed,” Washington replied. 

 

*** 

 

The line to the club stretched around the front of the warehouse. Hamilton ignored it. He walked to the front of the line, where a man stood at a host stand with a list. Washington took in the line - women in short skirts and men dressed like him - and the warehouse, and the man at the host stand, and two additional bodyguards, all of which eyed them with disdain.

“Hamilton!” said the man at the host stand, and he gave Hamilton a complicated handshake, “Damn man, you were just here last night. Oh, your lady’s here, too, you know. I didn’t tell her, but she had her whole fuckin’ entourage, you know. So I don’t know where the fuck you’d fit in there. Oh, and they all had -- you know how those people dress.” 

Hamilton laughed, easy. His black polo hid the hand-shaped bruises that wrapped around his neck like a chain. He crossed his hands over his chest and rolled his eyes. “Hey, McHenry. Look, I can only dress like that sometimes, you know? Anyway, so you gonna let me in, or do I gotta fucking blow you?” 

The man - McHenry - finally looked at him. It felt strange to be wearing these clothes, like he was underdressed. Where was his tie and his blazer? Hamilton had also picked out one of his most expensive watches, and it felt strange to wear it without a pocket square and a good pair of slacks. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore jeans. 

“Hey, who’s dad?” McHenry asked.

Hamilton snorted a laugh. “Well, didn’t I promise that if I was gonna bring my boss, it’d be here?” 

McHenry took him in again. He gestured both of them closer, opened the velvet rope, and closed it behind them. 

“You’re fuckin George Washington?” McHenry said, lowering his voice. He looked Washington up and down for a few moments, “Shit, nice watch. Wow, you look even radder in real life than when I googled you. I’m a big fan. You know like… there just aren’t a lot of black people who are insanely rich, right? And you are?” 

“I do pretty well,” he answered, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans. It was a strange place to be, alien and unfamiliar. He wasn’t sure what the answers to the questions weren’t supposed to be; Hamilton hadn’t been sure how much talking they’d have to do to get inside. Hamilton had also assured him this wouldn’t be the hard part, though. He had to manage his energy and his resources. 

“Pretty well, yeah, like you buy houses to hide from taxes,” Hamilton said, and McHenry’s eyebrows went up, impressed. “So we can go, right?” 

“Yeah, no problem, just you know, buy a lot of shit.” McHenry laughed, but then something came into his face, and became serious again. “Oh, wait, did you hear what happened to Morris? He got into a huge fucking car accident and he said they cut his fucking leg off. He’s raising money to cover his bills and all that shit.” 

“No shit?” Hamilton replied. His eyes had gone wide, and he looked up at Washington wearing his best shocked face - possibly legitimately surprised, not even pretending to be surprised. He walked in a little circle, dodged some stilletto-and-mini-dress women one of the bodyguards was letting into the club, and finally met McHenry’s eyes. “Shit, man. Shit. What the fuck is he gonna do?” 

“I don’t know, man. There’s like an internet donation thing going for his bills.” McHenry took a breath. “Anyway. I gotta work. Don’t party too hard with your boss, okay?” 

“We are not going to party too hard,” Washington said. McHenry gestured them inside. 

The club was as loud and crowded as he had guessed. The flashing lights stunned him for a second, until he felt thin, powerful fingers wrap around his wrist and pull him through the space. 

“McHenry’s a cool guy,” Hamilton said, but at the volume of the club, it was a shout, “Knows every fucking name and face you can imagine. Just fucking wish they paid him more. Perks are nice but they don’t get your kid medicine, you know? Also that fucking dipshit couldn’t fill out a form to save his goddamn life. I had to do his taxes for him!” 

Wait. 

He reviewed what Hamilton had said, just then. It was hard, with the pounding music and being half-dragged through the club, past the dance floor and closer to the DJ. He was aware of being sized up, but discarded it for now. This was more important. 

“That’s the only way you can get into the club?” He shouted back at Hamilton, who nodded. 

People who remembered names and faces were valuable to him, and more so in cases where a number of high-profile people could be. If all he needed for that information was to provide some medicine for children, it was obvious what actions he needed to take. Even better was that it seemed McHenry already admired him. He would think it was charitable. Perhaps there were even more ways, to make it seem less like he was paying to hear what McHenry had to say. Maybe McHenry would like the sound of it as is. 

If there was a whole untapped network here, and most of them just wanted money… 

“What about your friend Morris?” he asked. 

“Shit, I don’t know,” Hamilton shouted back. They found a bit of empty space, at the back end of the bar. Nearby was a woman at another host stand, wearing a relatively modest black dress and presently being harassed by a drunk man holding a drink. 

“I can’t imagine the benefits of being a bouncer are good.” 

“Nah, and you sometimes get into fights, you need a fucking leg. Man, shit.” Hamilton put his face over his hands. “Whatever, I’ll figure something out for him later. He’s a fucking rad dude.” 

“I could help.” 

Hamilton looked over from where he was ordering drinks at the bar. “Why the fuck do you care about club bouncers? And don’t try to fucking convince me you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.” 

“They know who goes and comes in a place like this. That’s valuable.” 

Hamilton shoved a drink into his hand. He took a sniff, then let it hang in his fingers. Vodka and Redbull. What you drank here, he supposed. Another reason to never come back. 

“Well, just don’t make it seem like you’re just squeezing them for information.” 

“I never do.” 

Hamilton took a long gulp of his own drink, then walked over to the host stand and slid between the woman standing there and the man giving her a hard time. The music swallowed up the conversation, but the drunkard didn’t seem to be moved by being shouted at. You had to be sober to understand Hamilton putting you in your place, Washington thought. Sometimes he went a bit above and beyond the average mind, nonetheless the average mind dulled with bad liquor. 

He took in the club again. After further investigation, he could see how the ceiling cleverly dropped and the sound-absorption padding appeared along the hanging designs there, subtly sealing off this part of the club from the rest of it. There was art along elbow-high ropes designed to make you think that was the end of the room, and yet the place still seemed huge, even when crowded. He made a note to find the name of the architect. It was a very impressive space. Past the ropes, men and women sat on couches and laughed and drank. They danced close. 

There was Sampson, towards the corner. Hamilton had not been incorrect in his report. She had quite the large and very unusual entourage. She was speaking to one of them. Another poured amber liquid into a glass with ice. All she needed was a man in a toga with a palm frond to complete the image. 

He glanced back to the hostess stand, the drunk, the hostess, and Hamilton. Hamilton was still arguing with the drunk. Arguing might have been generous. Hamilton was talking and the drunk was staring at him, likely unable to appreciate the severe verbal beating that he was getting. The hostess had apparently put the whole thing out of her mind, because she had taken her iPad from the hostess stand and was now seating another couple. He supposed he could have let Hamilton argue and made some pretend effort to teach Sampson about his present facade. 

Hamilton did know better at the right way to act, though. Washington left the awful cocktail on the bar nearest to him. Then, he drifted back close enough to hear the conversation, then put himself between the two bodies. 

“I think it’s time for you to go,” he said to the drunk, who this close seemed maybe late 20s, sufficiently poorer than him, with bloodshot eyes. “You’re not going to have any success here.” 

“She was talking to me, man,” the man said, and tried to look over Washington’s shoulder. The hostess came back to her stand, but when the man tried to get closer to her, Washington kept his body there, keeping himself broad. “Come on, why you gotta be like jackass boy and not let me talk to someone gorgeous?” 

“You should go,” he said, again. 

“Yeah,” Hamilton added. 

“Hey,” the man snarled at Hamilton, “I’ve had enough of your shit-ass punk fucking attitude, you fucking spi--” 

Washington took a handful of the collar of the man’s shirt and gave it a firm twist before the rest of the word made it out. He was not unaware that this was now the second man that he had strangled today. “You really should not use that kind of language,” he growled, and he brought his hand down and forced the man to drop to his knees. A bouncer, black-on-black, materialized from the crowd and took them in: the drunk gasping at his knees; Washington’s frown; Hamilton’s fists clenched at his side and the half-repressed rage on his face. 

“I think this man has had too much to drink, sir,” Washington said to the bouncer, and pretending a lack of effort, hefted the man back to his feet. 

“I think you’re right,” the bouncer said, and grabbed the drunk’s wrist. Washington let him go and wrapped the arm over Hamilton’s shoulders, pushing him to face away from the man and the club, towards the hostess stand. 

“Thanks,” the hostess said to him, and gave him a little smile. She was pretty, in the way you were expected to be beautiful if you worked at an establishment like this. 

“Are people like him the worst part of this job?” he asked. 

She thought about it for a couple of moments. “I don’t know, I think really stuck-up people who think I can materialize stuff we’re out of is worse. But I mean, that’s no picnic either, right?” 

“People who think you can materialize things are awful,” he agreed. 

“So,” she shifted behind the stand and smiled a customer service smile at him, “Do you have a reservation I can help you with, sir?”

“Actually--” 

“Hey, you know, I helped get that scumbag out of your hair. Don’t I get a thank you too?” Hamilton said, and leaned against the side of the hostess stand. 

In a second, she turned to him and frowned. “I’m working right now, Alex,” she said, just a bit curt, and gestured back to Washington. 

“He’s with me,” Hamilton retorted, and slid around the stand to lean over the front, “Remember how you said you promised me you’d get me a couch if I brought my boss?” 

“This is your boss?” The hostess - and he had to admit that there was both entertainment and a strange disconcerted feeling to see Hamilton with connections he’d never known - jabbed a thumb at him. 

“I am his boss,” he agreed, “And you’d be doing me a big favor if you could seat us. I’m very happy to cover the costs. I wouldn’t expect it not to be paid.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a black card, setting it on the stand and tilting his head. 

She picked up the card, looked at him, and then looked Hamilton. Then she tapped a couple of times on the iPad, swiped the card, and handed it back to him with a smile. “I can definitely get you a seating, Mr. Washington,” she said, “Would you come with me?” 

“Thank you,” he said, and gestured for Hamilton to follow him. He had been right, that the design of the ceiling dampened the music just enough for it to be only marginally intolerable. He let his gaze slide over the other couches and their spread liquor, and all the women and men dressed indecently and all over each other. He suppressed the distaste at it. There were sensible ways to flaunt one's wealth and become important and seem valuable and shout your own self-importance. All of this, though, was gaudy and embarrassing, and furthermore seems an easy way for a person to be very quickly and very thoroughly pickpocketed. Not to mention he was sure the area crawled with cameras. Not a hint of privacy. He created a countdown in his mind for when he got to leave this place. Already he dreamed about being back in his living room, with the city under him. Maybe he would have Hamilton again. 

“Here you are,” she said, and gestured. It was a square little area of one large couch and two smaller once that faced it, with a round table between the three. There was a tall bowl there, filled with ice. Hamilton flagged down the waiter immediately and ordered. “Mr. Washington,” she said, once Hamilton had disappeared, “I just wanted to apologize, if Alex has said I was, um--” 

He held up a hand and she stopped. “Between us, I think it is extremely important that you continue to treat him with only the respect he’s earned,” he said, “If you don’t think he’s worth your extremely valuable time, don’t give to it to him.” 

She looked surprised. She looked over to where Hamilton was talking to the waitress - another generically pretty blond woman - and then back to him. “So this isn’t some kind of weird favor for him?” she asked. 

“We’re actually here on business,” he replied, “So I don’t want you to think that he’s put in a bad word with me, or something like that. In fact, I’m sure all my information is attached to my card - don’t hesitate to contact me if you feel he’s been out of line. His behavior represents me, and if you think he does something I should know about, feel free to tell me.” 

She still seemed a bit disconcerted, but she smiled nonetheless. “Thank you, Mr. Washington. Mary will be your server, so if you need anything, she can help you out.” 

“Thank you,” he said, and she went back to the hostess stand. 

He sat on on the largest couch for a moment before Hamilton came over with a bottle of whiskey and two rocks glasses. 

“You know a lot of people here,” he said. Hamilton poured him a glass, then his own, to which he added coke too. 

“I come here a lot, I like to know the people I work with,” Hamilton said. He took a drink, and then sat too close to Washington. 

“Do you and the hostess have a history?” 

“Who, Kitty? Yeah, I’ve known her since before I started working for you. I used to work for a friend of her dad’s. You’d like her dad, but he’s a fucking racist piece of shit too.” A beat. “I can’t believe that shithead was about to call me that.” 

“Don’t get worked up about it,” Washington said, and took a drink. He would have preferred bourbon, but high-quality whiskey would do well enough. This wasn’t really the time for drinking, though. A sip or two would be enough. “So, now that we’re here, what should we do?” 

Hamilton sat up. He looked over in the direction of where Sampson sat, took a long gulp of his drink, and put the glass back on the table. “Well, we can wait for her to notice you, or I can go over there, or you can go over there. Or we could dance, that would draw attention to you.” 

“This is not dancing, and I am not doing it.”

“Well, I’m going to dance a little. Why don’t you look enviously in my direction and feel jealous of all the people who are no doubt touching me inappropriately.” 

He felt the low curl of displeasure in his stomach. It was because there was so much uncertainty in the plan. It had nothing to do with Hamilton out in this crowd of drug-addled degenerates. 

“Great, well, looks like you’ve got that covered!” Hamilton laughed, and then he took a swig from the bottle, and then he disappeared into the crowd. 

Washington sat back on the couch and drank his whiskey. He disliked the club more with every passing moment. There wasn’t just the noise, which even here was abysmal, but the people around him were embarrassing in their clothes and desperate displays of wealth. They carried around the bottles of liquor as if they were trophies for some accomplishment. The women wore the most ridiculous shoes that he could have imagined, and then men added abysmal accents - terrible rings and bad watches and more awful necklaces. 

He took a breath. He had waited out better opportunities in worse circumstances. And, he thought, there were things to learn here. It was not wasted time if he did waste it, and in a new and foreign environment there were certainly things to learn. In hindsight, it didn’t seem that unlikely that there would be another circumstance that he could improve by coming here. There had to be other people who had equally terrible ideas about how to spend their time, like ruining their hearing and being inappropriately groped. 

The men were mostly in Hamilton’s age range, though he had a sneaking suspicion most were making the effort look younger or older than they really were. Some of them looked into his empty area, and then at him, offering sly little smiles. The last thing he needed was one of these desperate whores trying to steal his wallet or run off to their friends and brag about how much _George Washington_ liked them. They left, when he stared them down. At least this group could understand when they weren’t wanted. It was nice, to have your own space, even when everyone else was crowded in and around each other. 

He looked towards the crowds. A few moments and he saw Hamilton, dancing with another man in a black shirt. A sigh. If the man had done this only to get him here, and make him be a part of this ridiculous situation… 

“Out of all the people, you would be the last one I’d expect to be here.” 

He looked up and saw Deborah Sampson, and the irritation dissolved in an instant. 

“Why?” he asked, and moved over, so she could sit. She brought two of her entourage - a woman and a person of ambiguous gender, both in a silver dresses. One took the bottle of Johnnie Walker and revealed a number of glasses, which they poured her some. 

“And you drink Johnnie Walker Blue. I thought you had bourbon in your office?” 

“I hope I can have more than one favorite,” he answered, and offered his glass. They also poured for him, and he took another sip. 

“Well, it looks like you just started on this favorite,” she responded, and took the bottle from the encourage, studying it. 

“We just got here,” he replied, and took a drink. 

“We?” she echoed, and looked around his place, “Out of all the people I would expect to come and sit in a VIP booth alone, though you _would_ be at the top.” 

He didn’t frown, but he felt the curdle of distaste in his stomach. As if there was some downside to avoiding the crush of people and all this worthless, paid-for adulation. No, in terms of crowds, he would prefer the rules of the company campus. The easy power of his office. The fact that there was a door. 

“No,” he answered, “I came with someone else, though he’s disappeared at present.” He looked off into the dance floor. No sign of Hamilton, but he had confidence the man would look over, realize he was needed, and return. They understood each other well enough to know that by now. 

“How charming,” she said, “You didn’t really strike me as the club type when we spoke yesterday.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

She shrugged and took a drink. The entourage arranged themselves around her, like they were paid to do it. Idly, he wondered if they were. 

“Will you tell me more about your partner, or is that a secret?” She asked, leaning toward and grinning. “I just have to know about the man who has found the way to be close to a man so cold as ice. How doesn’t he burn himself?” 

Washington chuckled. So they’d been right, that it was the first impression that had turned her off to him. Of course they were right about it. Now that she saw him in these strange outfit in this terrible place, maybe she would reconsider his offer. The offer had been very good, after all. And he was willing to bring down the price, because they were friends now. So similar, and all that. “You already know him. It’s my assistant.” 

This, evidently, was extremely funny. For a a good minute, she just laughed. Then she stood up and grabbed his bottle of whiskey. “Why don’t you come sit with me? I’m sure your assistant can find us. He seemed pretty smart.” 

“Sure,” he answered, even though it was hard to imagine something he wanted to do less than be crawled on by strangers. Even so, they walked across the VIP area, towards her posse. They opened for her like a parting ocean, and the size of the space they made indicated he was to join her. So he did. 

“Do you come he often?” she asked, pulling one of the entourage closer and running her fingers through his long blonde hair, “Or are there other clubs you're more interested in?” 

A test. He knew it, but they had foreseen the possibility she would doubt his credibility. 

“Really, I prefer Dark,” he said, “But this is Alex's favorite.” 

_Oh man,_ Hamilton had said, when he was laying on the couch, _They don't even let me into Dark most of the time. I can get in there at like a Tuesday at like… 8 o’clock._

Her eyebrows went up. “Dark is pretty nice,” she agreed, “But I find it's a bit upscale. You know, the dress code is very strict for women.” 

“I've heard, and I'm sympathetic.” 

“Do you get Blue there too?” she asked. 

“They have a good rye selection that I'm partial to,” he said. He’d looked over the bottle list in the place, when they’d been talking about it. 

“So it sounds like you have a lot of favorite drinks, but only one favorite partner?” A sly smile curled on the corner of her mouth. She rearranged the man in her lap and pulled one of the other entourage close. “I guess it’s probably pretty hard to reach the standards you might require of a partner.” 

“You could say that,” he answered, and almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. “But I don’t think it’s a matter of good or bad or standards. It’s merely important to understand what you like. Such is how you improve yourself. If what you like is something difficult to acquire, or very rare, then it’s a natural consequence to have less of it.” 

“And is your assistant very difficult to acquire, or very rare?”

“I'd wager he’s both.” 

She smiled at knowing little smile at him, and turned to give one of the entourage a kiss. “Well,” she said, “That’s an important part of being a boss. Not only do you need to attract talent, but you need to keep it.” 

“That you do,” he answered. 

“So what about him makes him so rare?” she asked. 

Talking about Hamilton was comfortable, but even so, he knew he had to be careful. Although the way her posse moved around her gave him the feeling that perhaps they actually enjoyed this. If they weren’t paid - if they all showed up for kisses, touches and the privilege of pouring drinks and looking beautiful - that automatically excluded her from a person Hamilton be interested in. Hamilton would immediately deny anyone who asked him what was wrong; he had the force of same-side magnetism to people who tried to assist him. 

“For one,” he began, taking another sip of the whiskey, “I’ve never met a man so dedicated to turning his will into reality, and as you can imagine that is a fairly impressive number of people. Not only the work ethic, but of course that’s a part of it - but there’s the brilliance and the drive associated with not only identifying the solution you want, but imagining the steps to carry through with that solution, and then following through with those steps.” 

“He seemed very intense,” she said. 

“He is very intense,” he answered. 

There was disruption among the entourage. They both looked over.

“Let him through, Mark!” Sampson shouted over, and Hamilton appeared around a broad shoulder, glaring as he walked into their space. He stopped in front of Washington, and when no space appeared, put himself directly into Washington’s lap. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Ms. Sampson,” Hamilton said, putting on his most believable surprised face and voice. He glanced around again at the entourage, who had resettled themselves after the disruption. 

“We were just talking about your, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, “Your boss says you’re very intense.” 

“All good things, I hope. Though I am very intense,” Hamilton agreed, and chuckled a little. He looked at Washington and smirked at him. Washington had learned very well to read all the hidden messages in that face: _See, this is working out great_ as well as _I hope you didn’t bring up anything I wouldn’t like to talk about_ and definitely some of _I’m getting a reward for this and it better be good._

Washington put a hand on his hip, and knew there was an old bruise there. Hamilton, to his credit, didn’t wince. 

“So you two usually go out to places like this?”

“I usually do, sometimes I bring him,” Hamilton said. He reached out, let Washington’s hand pull against him and press on the bruise. He poured himself some of the whiskey and took a shot, then filled the glass again and took it with him, settling again into Washington’s lap. He closed his eyes and sighed. Hamilton usually only feigned calm unless he was exhausted or some kind of overworked, but Washington could feel his heartbeat through their shirts, and it was slow.

There was a sense to it, that in a place so cacophonous and bright and loud, Hamilton would be at ease. Anything, Washington though, that might mute the wildness he was sure went inside the man’s brain. 

“You seemed like a very good team, in the meeting,” Sampson said, and she took them in, Hamilton uncharacteristically still in his lap, and he with one hand on the man’s hip and the other holding his drink, hiding his discomfort at being sat on by a man who ran hot in this overpacked room where it was too hot. 

“We are,” he answered. Hamilton nodded. 

“Maybe I misjudged you, George,” she said, “I know you don’t have the presentation, but give me the pitch from yesterday again. Maybe we can make a better team.”


End file.
